


Irgendwann fällt jede Mauer.

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Angst, Berlin Wall, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-26 09:36:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/281493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He knows John will come to meet him. Nothing will keep them apart now.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Irgendwann fällt jede Mauer.

A/N: This is a [kinkmeme fill](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6375.html?thread=28813031#t28813031). The prompt was simply the verse from David Bowie’s “[Heroes](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Heroes_%28David_Bowie_song%29)” about the lovers “[standing by the wall](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Berlin_Wall).” It occurred to me that I would not be worthy of my name if I did not fill this prompt. So, here we all are.

I didn’t want to bog the narrative down by inserting a lot of little history lessons into it, so some knowledge of Cold War Germany and the Berlin Wall must be assumed. (Hopefully not more knowledge than I have, or else you'll be pointing out all the mistakes I made.) Much of the material for the third, fourth, and fifth segments was drawn from the History Channel’s “Rise and Fall of the Berlin Wall.”

 

 

 **29 January 1959**

Having apparently reached whatever conclusion he was seeking, Sherlock Holmes pushes his chair away from the lab table and snatches the slide out from under the microscope. “Got my eye on a little place in central Berlin,” he says. “It’s actually in the Soviet sector, but it’s quite charming.”

John Watson looks incredulous. “We’ve only just met and we’re going to look at a flat? We don’t know a thing about each other.”

Undaunted, Sherlock tells him, “You are thirty years old. Your accent tells me you’ve lived in Berlin your whole life, so your limp is probably from an injury sustained when you were recruited at the age of fourteen for the final defense of Berlin in 1945. You carry with you the faint odor of cheap liquor and expensive perfume - _L’heure bleue_ , to be exact, a fragrance which peaked in popularity during the Weimar period. You live with someone who drinks, and wears that perfume. Likely you’re the illegitimate child of a cabaret singer, and still living with your mother, but looking for a flat because you’re desperate to get away from her. You’re tired of her melancholy drinking and the indolent chatter about her days at Die Katakombe.”

Tight-lipped, John nods. He is intrigued by this man, now.

“Did I get anything wrong?” Sherlock asks.

“It’s not my mother who’s the drunken ex-cabaret singer,” John says. “It’s my aunt.”

Sherlock curses himself, muttering, “His _aunt_. Of course.”

  
 **12 August 1961**

John is settling in with a book when Sherlock darts out of the bedroom and hastily reaches for his coat on the rack.

“Going out?” John says.

“I’m meeting an old classmate of mine tonight in Marzahn. The bank he manages is playing host to a tremendous amount of funds on its way to Budapest, and I am certain that this is the evening that someone will try to interfere with it. He and I will be keeping watch over the vault all night.”

John puts his book down. “Room for a third?”

“Sorry, I need you to help me with another stakeout. I have a client who thinks his wife has been kidnapped by the Stasi. My belief is that she simply left him and has taken up with an American soldier.” Sherlock hands John a piece of paper with something scribbled on it, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “Keep an eye on this address. It’s in Stieglitz, near the Roosevelt Barracks. Sometime in the middle of the night, when her husband is asleep, the wife will sneak back in to the house retrieve some of her treasured possessions. Don’t interfere, or wake the husband; he’s cruel and deserves to be abandoned. Just confirm my suspicions for me.” He heads for the stairs.

“Wait! When will you be back? You promised me you’d go to see _Das Wunder des Malachias_ with me tomorrow.”

Sherlock stands in the doorway, adjusting his gloves minutely. “And I will. I’m certain this evening will prove relatively uneventful for both of us. Meet me at the Brandenburg Gate at one-thirty tomorrow. That will give us plenty of time to have a late lunch and see the film.”

  
 **4 February 1962**

The only car that Rudolf, Sherlock’s West Berliner conspirator, can procure is a tiny Volkswagen. The petrol tank has been removed, and once Sherlock climbs into the boot, a one-gallon can will be hooked up in its stead and placed on top of him.

Sherlock is tall, unfit for the space he’s given. But the ride should only be fifteen minutes, plus ten more at the border crossing. Rudolf’s papers are perfectly in order. So long as the guards don’t go poking around, all should go smoothly.

Five minutes into the journey, Sherlock is already running short of air, but he still believes he can make it. The Volkswagen hits a bump in the road, and within moments he feels something burning the back of his neck. After some struggle trying to free his trapped arm, he can feel that the pipe connecting the petrol can to the car has come loose. Minutes later, the car stalls, still miles from the checkpoint.

  
 **21 September 1965**

Sherlock does his duty as an East Berliner and joins the army. He is every inch the loyal and eager recruit, and is particularly excited about the prospect of guard duty at the Wall. He passes every test with flying colours, from the physical to the psychological exams. But he does not get to guard a watchtower just yet. Instead he is assigned to a military base in Lichtenberg, twenty kilometres from the Wall. He is not known as the most social of fellows during his hitch, but he does strike up a fascinating conversation one day with two soldiers who are manning an armored personnel carrier. He offers them cigarettes and inquires about the carrier. The two men are proud of the vehicle in their charge, and with very little prompting, happily show it off to Sherlock, inside and out. Sherlock even learns how to turn it on, and how the gears work. 

The soldiers and their officers leave to have dinner. Sherlock says he has other duties to attend to, and bids them good evening. Once he is alone, he hops into the carrier and switches it on.

He drives straight through the gate, which is secured only with a chain, and hurtles onto the main road. When he approaches each of the manually-operated traffic signals, the police see a vehicle of the armed forces and switch the lights to green for him.

But the word is soon out, and Sherlock is being followed closely when he presses on the accelerator and crashes through the Wall. The vehicle easily breaks through the brick and mortar, but its tires are stuck on the concrete base. The vehicle will not budge another inch, and the doors are still in East Berlin. Sherlock dives out and tries to climb his way through the rubble to freedom. He is so pumped full of adrenalin, he does not feel the cuts on his arms from the barbed wire, nor does he feel the bullet in his leg, at first.

  
 **6 July 1979**

Sherlock buys the fabric a few yards at a time, from ten shops scattered through three cities. Every spare minute, he sews the pieces of fabric together. He is making a balloon.

After six weeks, he has his canopy. Ideally, he would have a supply of hydrogen or helium to float it, but ex-convicts like himself are watched too closely for such a purchase. He must use hot air.

He hauls his new transport to a hidden clearing in the forests near Thuringia, thirty kilometres from the border. When he fires the burner, it stutters and pops, but the canopy fills with hot air, and the balloon takes off.

Height is more important than distance at first; the higher he gets, the harder it will be to shoot him down. But when he gets to four thousand feet, the balloon floats into a cloud. The canopy absorbs the suspended water and ice, and the balloon begins to sink. He crash lands in the woods, and the trip-wires he encounters tell him he is still in the East.

  
 **9 November 1989**

Sherlock hears the announcement on the radio at 11:30 PM. He joins the Brandts, the family of three from next door, in their tiny, odiferous Trabant, and they drive to Checkpoint Charlie. The Brandts don’t intend to “escape” to the West, they just want to have a look around and see what things are like over there. Sherlock feels differently. He has nothing, and needs nothing, but the clothes on his back. As they pass through the checkpoint, Wessies gleefully thump the hood of the car to welcome them.

There are already thousands of people here, and scores of Trabants. He’ll never find John if he stays at ground level. But he knows John is here. He knows John will come to meet him. Nothing will keep them apart now. He just needs a better vantage point to spot him.

Two obliging young people give him a boost. He stands on the Wall, jostled by the singers waving and flailing, stung by the chips of concrete that souvenir hunters are spraying everywhere with their hammers and chisels, dampened by the tears and champagne. Behind him, the Brandenburg gate looms, golden with illumination, as he desperately cries out, “John Watson! John Watson!”

“Look at that man, there,” says Sarah. Shivering in the chilly air, she points at a lean figure wrapped in a gray coat, standing stock-still on the Wall, save for his head, which swivels and surveys the mob. Everyone around him is dancing, but he is not joining in, just watching the euphoric crowd below. “Do you suppose he’s not pleased about what’s happened?”

John follows Sarah’s pointing finger, and his gaze falls upon this man, lank and weather-beaten, gray-haired and drawn. “It can’t be,” John says. He abandons Sarah and squeezes through the crowd.

The same two friendly youths boost John onto the Wall. Up close, John can see that time and the brutal East have taken more than their fair share of years from Sherlock. Though he is a few years younger than John, he now appears many years older. And he smells of soot. 

But nothing could take the ferocity from his eyes or the straightness from his shoulders. He must still stoop a bit to give his John a kiss.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [auf der Mauer](https://archiveofourown.org/works/863436) by [ladymac111](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymac111/pseuds/ladymac111)




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